"Not exactly. It's the worst tea I ever tasted. I must advise her to change her grocer."
Warburton exploded in a roar of laughter, and cried, as Franks stared wonderingly at him:
"You'll never make a better joke in your life than that."
"Shows what I can do when I try," answered the artist. "However, the tea is shockingly bad."
"What can you expect for one and sevenpence halfpenny per pound?" cried Will.
"How do you know what she pays?"
Warburton's answer was another peal of merriment.
"Well, I shouldn't wonder," Franks went on. "The fact is, you know, they're very poor. It's a miserable sort of a life for a girl like Bertha Cross. She's clever, in her way; did you ever see any of her work? Children's book-illustrating? It's more than passable, I assure you. But of course she's wretchedly paid. Apart from that, a really nice girl."
"So this is what you had to tell me?" said Warburton, in a subdued voice, when the speaker hesitated.
"I wanted to talk about it, old man, that's the truth."